The Eden Express_ A Memoir of Insanity - Mark Vonnegut [36]
Some of the best times of my life were with Luke. Town trips with anyone else were a drag. Somehow he and I used to get everything that had to be done in about half the time it took anyone else. Obstacles seemed to vanish. Then we’d get a jug of wine and go visiting. We’d sing old rock-and-roll songs late into the night.
If I were to pick out the high point of my life, I think it would be strolling down the beach in Powell River holding hands with Luke in the shadow of the stench-belching pulp mill, half-crocked on wine, the sun setting, and singing “You Are My Sunshine.”
Hanging around with Luke, I felt the same flowing good feelings and lack of hesitancy that I felt with Zeke.
Luke loved the old lapstrake double-ender and could rarely be persuaded to sleep anywhere else on town trips. The outboard I had brought from Barnstable made Blue Marcel dependable but she was still only thirteen feet long and couldn’t carry much. We asked around about the old boat and learned that it had been on the lake since 1917 and, more important, was for sale. At $175, a steal. Feather, weighing in at over two tons, became our heavy carrier bad-weather hope.
Unfortunately, Feather got to make only two trips for us. The first brought us our two pregnant goats, the second brought Simon’s family up for Christmas. Then, since the engine was acting strangely, we decided to just let Feather sit till spring, when we could fix everything right.
CHRISTMAS. Another holiday, another occasion. A new set of inspectors, Simon’s family. His sister, little brother, and parents all showed up to spend Christmas at the farm. Jet fare alone must have run over a thousand dollars.
Simon went down to Vancouver to meet them: neutral ground, so to speak. They spent a few days there, did some skiing, and then came up. The parents didn’t spend much time at the farm. After about a day and a half they retreated to the Marine Inn back in town. It was probably the outhouse that did it as much as anything else. We all thought they were pretty good sports to come at all.
There were little awkward moments, like when someone passed a joint to Simon’s little brother, but all in all it went very well. We enjoyed having them there and I think they enjoyed being there. They weren’t tickled pink that Simon had chosen this way of life but they weren’t foaming at the mouth about it either.
There were lots of the usual conversations you have with parents about this sort of thing. Throwing away a good college education. Don’t you get bored? Money? What about working in the system? Would you fill in an absentee ballot if I sent you one? Dope.
Same conversations but with a difference. The difference was it was taking place on our turf and not theirs. We were the ones who could afford to be indulgent and polite about their screwy ideas. Somehow, watching their reactions to this new situation gave the farm a solidity and reality that the previous inspection by peers had only hinted at.
On the way to the farm with his family Simon had picked up a Christmas package from Barnstable addressed to Virge and me. Red and green DO NOT OPEN TILL CHRISTMAS stickers were on all sides. We went along with it and just let it sit there till December 25, in spite of our talk about moving Christmas back to the winter solstice, where it belonged.
When we opened the box, it was all I could do to keep from crying. The two little bottles of champagne had broken en route. The champagne had all evaporated but the joint letter from everyone was stained and the pages of the books were warped. Nothing but the wine was really destroyed, my Christmas stocking and my mother’s rum cake were OK, but the accident seemed fraught with tragic symbolism. It triggered off thoughts of Christmas a year ago.
Each of us in the family knew that it was “the last Christmas.” The last Christmas we would all spend together. The last Christmas that would be anything